Wednesday, September 17, 2014

First Shot (53)

The call came while
Blow was walking. He had dropped Mary off at the house, where she had
parked her car. After he watched her car disappear down the street,
he started toward his office door. As he trod up the walk from the
parking pad he became aware of a weakness in his knees. It worsened
as he mounted the steps, and he grabbed the wrought-iron railing to
steady himself. Fumbling with his key ring at the lock he was alarmed
to see how badly his hand trembled, so badly it extended past his
wrist up the forearm.

He breathed deeply
and let the air gush out of his lungs. He did this several times
until he felt a dizziness and realized he was in danger of
hyperventilating. With a panicking rush that came as a blackness
surrounding him and that reduced his muscles to palsied rubber and
bathed his upper body in sweat, he leaned heavily against the door
and then, feeling collapse was imminent, managed to lower himself to
a sprawling position on the top step. There he found comfort leaning
against the vertical rail struts, both as something benignly solid
and, oddly, despite the breezy afternoon chill, from the metal's
bracing cool.

It
wasn't until he'd forced himself back to his feet and was walking,
away from the house, that he sensed his mind was beginning to restore
him to a functional equilibrium. He began to understand he'd
experienced a physical revulsion at the prospect of entering his own
house. He'd not only persuaded Mary Lloyd the house might be bugged
with hidden eavesdropping devices, he realized, he'd persuaded
himself, and had no idea who if anyone might be listening or watching
on the other end. He laughed when he recognized the irony. Laughed
with a gusto of relief so unusual he knew any witnessing neighbors
would think he was coming unglued. This notion made him laugh even
harder. He was laughing when he heard his cellphone's annoying
Beat me, Daddy
ringtone.

The
number did not ring a bell. Neither did the voice that addressed him
as “Mr. Stone”. Her name was vaguely familiar.

“Cheryl?
Cheryl who?”

“You
know a close relative of mine. Please do not mention his name.” The
voice was low and confident, although it sounded tense. Blow
remembered that Salzwedel's wife's name was Cheryl.

“Can
you tell me why you are being so careful? Is someone with you?”

“Yes,
but I'm in no danger from him. We're being careful because we know
about recognition databases—name and voice. We feel there's a good
chance your phone is being monitored. We think it is less likely that
ours is. Of course if someone's listening to your calls I suppose
they're in the process right now of trying to trace ours. So please
listen carefully. I'm going to hang up as soon as I finish passing
his message to you.”

“OK,
I'm with you.”

“The
girl is missing. Ran away, her mother thinks. Hopes. Please go to
their house as soon as you can. He will meet you there. Wait...”
Blow heard faint voices. “OK, take your time and make sure no one
is following you. Did you get all that?”

“I
did. Yes.”

“Thank
you. Goodbye.” The connection went dead.

Blow
stood dumbfounded for a couple of seconds as a variety of
urgent-seeming notions jostled for position in his head. He was on a
sidewalk staring vacantly at an inviting, well-maintained three-story
shuttered white house four blocks from home. He was never sure who
lived in the house he was staring at, but he knew they had children
evidenced by the occasional appearance of a tricycle on the front
walk or a bicycle leaning next to the porch steps. At the moment
nothing like this registered with him except a vague sense of
friendliness the house and its nicely trimmed yard conveyed. What he
wanted now more than anything else was to be in his own home, the
same house that moments earlier had terrified him with its possibly
compromised privacy.

Maybe
he was
coming unglued, he thought, breaking from his trance and reversing
his steps at a jog that quickly accelerated into a sprint. On the
way, he speed-dialed Homer Price, whose phone was busy.

“Homeboy,
it's Blow,” he said into the voice mail recorder. He knew Homer
would recognize his voice, and hoped his friend would understand why
the odd play on his name with a word neither of them used on each
other. “I need to borrow your ve-hickle. Emergency. I'll park my
truck in back so nobody sees it from the street. Seriously, buddy.
I'll be there before you can shake a stick.”